


Safehouse

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Safehouse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel/Demon Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bathtubs, Bottom Castiel, Crowley's sweet lair, Fire, Fireside Sex, First Time, Grace-Powered Orgasms, Hair Washing, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Feeding, M/M, Massage, Post-Coital Cuddling, Season/Series 06, Seduction, Slow Burn, Their love is so pure, Top Crowley, True Forms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Castiel, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7761022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 6 Crowley drags a harassed and tightly-wound celestial soldier through a thunderstorm to his safe-house in Scotland and proceeds to teach him how humans relax.</p><p>"Upstairs. Poor old you, stuck in the middle of the whole moronic bloody flock of them." Crowley wets his lips, just a flicker of pink tongue. "Never mind. You're here now. You look like you could do with a rest." When Castiel has dried his face, rubbed ineffectively at his hair, he doesn't hand the towel back. Holds it, hanging down like a matador's cape. Crowley cocks his head and the candles around the bath flare as if there's a draught. "I suppose I shouldn't say 'let's get you out of those wet things'..."<br/>Castiel tilts his head, mirroring, birdlike and curious. "Why not?" It's strange being in this place, which is so bound to Crowley's will that it feels like part of him. If Castiel closes his eyes he can feel Crowley's power surrounding him, touching him like a physical thing, dark and slick as oil where it swells in the air and breaks around Castiel as if it doesn't know what to do with him. As if he's a particularly obstinate rock that the tide is trying to wear into sand.<br/>"Why not, indeed."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safehouse

**Author's Note:**

> We were pretty much just mentally designing Crowley a sweet lair, then this happened accidentally. For ten thousand words.
> 
> Smaychel wrote Castiel, TheFierceBeast wrote Crowley. Neither of us have any regrets.

It isn't anything that could be described as a castle. Not really, although it bears some certain resemblances to one; most notably in size and outward grandeur. To Castiel, who has grown accustomed to the functional, often somewhat shabby modernity of most of the American architecture he ever has call to come into contact with, it seems needlessly ornate. Especially when he knocks at the heavy door, an act that feels particularly superfluous, considering that the building's occupant must have known he was here from the moment he crossed into the well-kept grounds. Possibly before. When the door swings open he blinks at the lights twinkling from the crystal chandelier in the wide hall. They’re bright against the contrast of the stormy night outside, the night Castiel has crossed to reach this place. He frowns at the figure silhouetted in the arched doorway. "Good evening, Crowley."  
"Found the place alright, did we, angel?" Crowley leans against the doorframe idly, glancing out over Castiel's shoulder. "Nasty night," he says, conversationally. Then, at Castiel's narrowed eyes, "Oh. Where are my manners? Suppose you're waiting to be invited in?"  
"It would defeat the point of inviting me here not to. Although that is your prerogative." Crowley had been so very insistent, after all, despite Castiel's hesitancy, his concern that his attention would be needed elsewhere.  
Crowley's smile is sly and slow, a little glint of mischief in his eye that Castiel might almost miss had he not spent so much time of late in the crossroad king's company. Time that has been very _educational_. Crowley nods. "You're quite right. Of course. Do come in." He spreads his arms, an expansive gesture, and Castiel feels the shimmer of whatever warding that had him trudging on foot from the twisted iron gates dissipating. "Bit damp, there, love." Crowley observes as Castiel steps across the threshold.  
Castiel's mouth tightens, a minute sign of displeasure. "Yes. The weather in Scotland is exactly as I remember it." A drop of cold rain runs down the side of his face as if to punctuate this statement, and his coat is drenched, hanging from his shoulders like the damp wings of a newly emerged butterfly. "The sensation is unpleasant," he informs Crowley. Crowley, Castiel has found, likes to be kept appraised of such things. Seems to be keeping some sort of mental catalogue of physical experiences and Castiel's responses to them.  
"Doesn't it just make you feel alive, though? No?" Crowley pulls a thoughtful face, just a flicker away from all-out amusement, as Castiel follows him across the entrance hall, dripping all over the marble tiles. "Towels are in the bathroom." He half turns back as he sets a foot on the first stair, his gaze lingering. Appraising. Or perhaps calculating. "Delightful local climate aside, what do you think? Not a bad little shack, is it?"  
Castiel looks around him, noticing for the first time the painted walls and ceiling, inaccurate but no doubt well-meaning depictions of cherubs and saints perched precariously on clouds in a vast sunny sky, looking down over the large staircase as if spying on the house's inhabitants. He frowns. Wonders what opinion he is supposed to have of the place. "It's perfectly adequate, yes." Crowley seems displeased with this, his soft lips pursing unhappily, so Castiel tries again. "The warding is very impressive. Your work?"  
Crowley's frown crinkles into a smirk. He exhales a little laugh. "My work. Yes. Thank you." He nods at the nearest wall. "Seventeenth century. Unknown artist, but even so..." He trails off, exasperation warring with a strange sort of amusement in his expression. "Pearls before swine. How _is_ heaven, by the way?"

The lighting is growing dimmer by the foot, flickering candles in alcoved sconces. Crowley pauses, his hand on a door knob. "Do you care?" Castiel is not being facetious; he is genuinely curious.  
Crowley pulls a pragmatic face, shrugging. "Let's say I do."  
Castiel feels his shoulders slump, ever so slightly. It is, he notes, a very human gesture. "It is chaotic. I wish I could say that there is some resolution in sight, but for now..."  
"How's it go - clowns to the left of me, jokers etcetera etcetera?" The curl of Crowley's lip might almost be sympathetic. He pushes open the door onto more candlelight, reflected softly in gilt framed mirrors and polished stone. A bathroom, conspicuously later in design than the rest of the house, but no less opulent. A huge sunken bath dominates the floor, black granite or maybe marble, glittering with silvery chips of mica. It is, Castiel notes, full of water. The space and physics of it in a house like this reeks of magic, but then, it's Crowley's safe-house he supposes: the whole building is cloaked in casting. The walls of the room seem at once close and remote, shrouded in shadow. Crowley's footsteps echo neatly as he crosses to a rail, paces back to offer Castiel a towel, deep red.  
"I'm afraid I don't follow the reference." The towel is soft and warm, and Castiel finds himself squeezing the fabric absent-mindedly. Hurriedly, he presses it to his face, soaking up the excess water that has gathered there. He feels Crowley's eyes on him.  
"Upstairs. Poor old you, stuck in the middle of the whole moronic bloody flock of them." Crowley wets his lips, just a flicker of pink tongue. "Never mind. You're here now. You look like you could do with a rest." When Castiel has dried his face, rubbed ineffectively at his hair, he doesn't hand the towel back. Holds it, hanging down like a matador's cape. Crowley cocks his head and the candles around the bath flare as if there's a draught. "I suppose I shouldn't say 'let's get you out of those wet things'..."  
Castiel tilts his head, mirroring, birdlike and curious. "Why not?" It's strange being in this place, which is so bound to Crowley's will that it feels like part of him. If Castiel closes his eyes he can feel Crowley's power surrounding him, touching him like a physical thing, dark and slick as oil where it swells in the air and breaks around Castiel as if it doesn't know what to do with him. As if he's a particularly obstinate rock that the tide is trying to wear into sand.  
"Why not, indeed." Crowley's brows raise, briefly. "I've a spare robe you can use." He gestures vaguely, not to any dry clothing, but to the bath, steam rising lazily from a surface still as a black mirror. "You're welcome to a soak if you like. I'll even put some bubbles in for you."

It's difficult to tell when he's mocking, Crowley's manner being as it is. Castiel frowns. "I've never taken a bath before." It doesn't seem complicated, however. "I presume the mechanics are similar to showering." It wasn't something he had paid much attention to before the last few years, his recent intimacy with humanity. How the body dirtied itself and was cleaned, the cycle of human hygiene, the ritual of it. Crowley's bath is, of course, ostentatious - large, sunken into the floor, all black and gleaming in a way that makes the water seem like ink, or maybe pitch. Like it would stain Castiel if he put himself into it.  
"You want the instruction manual?" Crowley rolls his eyes a little at Castiel's expectant glance. "Really? What, is it all prison showers, oops, mind the soap, up in cloud cuckoo-land?" His voice softens. "I suppose you just don't bother. Not like you _need_ to relax, eh, soldier?"  
"I thought the purpose of bathing was to maintain personal hygiene, rather than for relaxation?" Castiel's hands almost absently go to the knot of his tie - askew, too tight. "But you're correct. I have no true need of either." Of course, he has experienced many needless things since becoming more familiar with Crowley, and has found many of them rewarding nonetheless, in unexpected ways.  
"Well then, choirboy, you've definitely been doing it wrong." Rain smatters against the windows, hidden behind floor length drapes the velvet colour of the shadows, as Crowley steps into Castiel's personal space, hands covering his over the knot of his tie. His voice is smooth as a touch. "Time for a little colleague bonding? Team Purgatory, what do you say?"  
Castiel pulls a face at the flippant words, but lets them go unchallenged. He drops his hands to his sides, lets Crowley fuss at the tight knot. Truthfully, he is weary. Crowley's voice is honey in his ears, sweet and soporific. "I was also led to believe that bathing is a solitary activity."  
"Depends on who you ask." Crowley murmurs. He tugs Castiel's tie deftly free, wraps it around one broad palm until it's a neat little roll he sets carefully aside, fingers re-alighting on Castiel's shirt buttons. "The Romans made quite a party of it. Of course, I'll leave you to it if you prefer," he adds. A thumb grazes Castiel's collarbone, perhaps by accident, as he pushes Castiel's coat from his shoulders. Castiel can't help the way he shudders at Crowley's touch. Something about this place has him very close to his body's surface, squirming within the tight membrane of it like a half-formed butterfly inside its chrysalis, alien and shapeless beneath the temporary skin. Crowley's power in the air has a dulling effect on Castiel’s own, makes it come slow and dusty when he tries to call it. "No," he finds himself saying, the growl of his voice quieted to an unsteady purr. "Stay."  
Crowley gives a solemn little nod. The corner of his mouth tugs up into an ever-so-slight smile. "Of course. We have a lot to talk about." He folds Castiel's shirt with practised precision. His hands linger, fluttering at his hips, then he makes a little gesture of encouragement. Takes a step back and folds his arms, turning his back politely so that Castiel can continue unaided. "Or not. I imagine you'd welcome the quiet." When Castiel nods in affirmation he sees movement. His own reflection. Crowley's lamplight eyes discreetly watching him undress in one of the antique mirrors.  
Quiet is one thing that Heaven has never been, but usually the sound of it is pleasant, harmonious. The sweet ringing of many celestial voices, the communion of it. Lately, however, the sound has grown discordant, and all Heaven has echoed that unhappy cacophony. It is draining. The noise of it still rings in Castiel's ears. "I have no preference," he says. "Talk if you want to talk."  
Castiel has no qualms about nudity. This body is not his own and does not represent his true self, and Crowley is certainly aware of this. He leaves his sodden clothing on the bathroom floor and steps into the water.  
Crowley watches him, silently, in the mirror. This quiet is a different thing again. A darkness of sound that swallows. Not entirely uneasy. The swish of the water as Castiel sinks beneath it merges with the incessant pattering of rain outside, the irregular tear of wind. It's strangely peaceful. He raises a hand, curiously, droplets of water clinging like mercury rather than tar, running down to circle his wrist. He drops his arm beneath the surface again and it shows very pale against the polished black stone of the tub. When he glances back over at Crowley, it's in time to see a glimpse of naked broad shoulders as Crowley shrugs on a robe, his own clothes neatly hung over the back of a chair.  
The water is indulgently warm. The heat seems to work its way into Castiel's muscles, to shake him loose from the inside out. He exhales an unnecessary breath and leans back, sinks his shoulders beneath the surface of the water, and closes his eyes.  
Beside his head, the shift of air and rustle of fabric betrays Crowley sitting. Then there's the warm weight of hands on Castiel's head, fingers running gently through the damp mess of his hair. Tugging lightly. Blunt tips tracing firm circles over his scalp. Crowley's voice rumbles, a part of the wind and the rain, "nice, isn't it?"  
"It is..." Castiel tips his head so that those fingers can reach further, can lightly skim the back of his skull. "It is acceptable, yes." The steam makes everything hazy and unreal. Crowley's gentleness, the water's heat, the way the dark stone swallows the light. It feels like an untouchable place. Outside of time, apart from the physical plane. Castiel presses back into Crowley's touch, wordlessly asking for more. It seems such a long time since anyone has touched him.  
"Let's just say I'm protecting my interests." Crowley's touch is adept. One hand strays down to the back of Castiel's neck, dipping beneath the water to knead at the knotted muscle there. "Everyone gets sloppy when they're exhausted and you're frazzled. I need you at the top of your game. How'd you think I stay so quick? A glass of mother's helper, a bit of how's your father. Works wonders, love." His hands are on Castiel's shoulders now, working their magic. He must be kneeling, leaning over the sunken edge of the bath. His voice buzzes close to Castiel's left ear. "You should take better care of yourself. Or let me."  
"What do you know about taking care of an angel?" Again, Castiel is genuinely interested in the reply. Is this something Crowley has done before? Invited wayward angels to his hideaway, touched their vessels with this casual familiarity? Castiel's mouth opens silently as Crowley's firm hands find a spot of stubborn tension in the back of his neck and start to soothe it.  
"I've been around, pet. Enough to know that everyone needs a bit of the good stuff now and then. Even angels." _Especially angels_ his tone seems to say. Castiel leans back against his steadying palms. Starts to float. "You know, I could do this a lot easier from down there. May I join you?"

Crowley's fingertips drag up through the short hair at Castiel's nape; Castiel shudders. "I..." Castiel can hardly think. He has never found physical contact so distracting, not even when he was brand new to it and clenching his jaw at the brush of his clothing against his skin, the molecules of air on his face, in his eyes... "Yes. Yes fine."  
There's a noticeable drop in temperature when Crowley's hands leave him, as if he's a source of more heat than a mortal body should be. Perhaps he is. In the dim flickering light, the serpent beneath the skin flickers too, writhing red and barely contained as Crowley unties his tasselled belt and slips the heavy silk from his shoulders to pool around his ankles. He dips a toe in the water, setting a foot on the first step, posed like classical statuary. It can't be accidental. The demon inside is thorns and scales but this vessel is soft, appealing. Enticing. And showing clear signs of arousal. Crowley follows Castiel's gaze: his voice is low, ragged. "You're beautiful: the vessel reacts. Does it bother you?"  
Beautiful. Castiel turns the word over in his mind. He has never considered it in relation to himself. He finds himself wondering exactly what of him Crowley finds beautiful. The vessel? Or the creature inside it? He realises he's staring at Crowley's genitals. His own penis is usually a lot softer and smaller than the one he's watching, which twitches like a living thing when he unconsciously licks his lips. “Why should it bother me?" he forces himself to reply, frustrated at how his voice seems to tremble.  
"It shouldn't. Ignore it." Crowley responds, smoothly. His palms skim the water; he sinks to his knees and shuffles closer, hip-deep, to sit next to where Castiel is lying. It's a snug fit with them side by side. "Simple things, these vessels," Crowley observes. He sounds almost reverent. "Simple, yet so wonderfully designed. I could never figure how yours was capable of containing _all that light_." His arm insinuates itself along the rim of the tub, behind Castiel's head: Castiel is instantly warmer again. "Here. Like this." And he's guided to lie between Crowley's spread legs, head resting against Crowley's chest, Crowley's erection a hot brand against his back.  
Castiel's eyes close and his body feels frozen, his awareness narrowed to all the places where Crowley is touching him: he feels that touch both on his skin and just under it, a dark lick of smoke. "Sometimes it doesn't seem contained," he admits. "I have to, to concentrate not to allow myself to..." he swallows. "To spill out of it."  
"I'd like to see that." Crowley's lips brush the outermost curve of his ear. "Magnificent." The angle of his reach is certainly changed: his hands work more surely across Castiel's shoulders, down his biceps. Crowley's toes curl beneath the surface of the water, press against Castiel's calves just below the dip of his knees.  
"You could get hurt." In Heaven the intimacy possible between angels is absolute. Not this half-formed thing: the press of body to body with no way to merge and unite them, the skin always a barrier. It is equal parts frustrating and exhilarating to Castiel, who is helplessly drawn to all imperfect things. He arches into Crowley's touch, tries to understand it. Reaches out with his own hands, hesitantly, to touch Crowley's wrists. His fingers. This form of touching seems at once meaningless and full of a meaning beyond his understanding. A form of communication he has no knowledge of or practice with. He feels clumsy. It is an entirely new feeling.  
"It'd be worth it." Crowley's lips brush his temple, ticklish. He exhales a laugh. "Although, I'm rather attached to this vessel. I can think of better ways to ruin it than burning it's eyes out. They're such pretty eyes, don't you think?" His fingers twine with Castiel's, easily; so seemingly easy for Crowley. Steam hangs, inches above the surface of the water.  
"Pretty?" Castiel twists to look back and up into Crowley's eyes. "No. Pretty is too safe to describe them. Your eyes are dangerous." This isn't a compliment or an insult. Merely a statement of fact. "Humans call them the windows of the soul."  
"What do they see through yours or mine, I wonder?" Crowley's stare is hard, as direct as Castiel's, almost too close to focus.  
"I've often wondered." Crowley's hands are still moving. They're firm and strong, and it is comforting to Castiel to think that he knows what he's doing. That this physical closeness is under his direction, that he understands it, the purpose of it, and all Castiel has to do is trust him.  
It's as if he can read Castiel's mind. "Lie down. Further. Let yourself go." The bath isn't particularly deep - although it's deep for a bath - but if Castiel lies full length like this with just his head resting against Crowley's chest he starts to feel weightless, adrift in a black sky starred with flames. He's aware of a sudden scent - lavender, oranges, something else undefinable - and Crowley's fingers are back in his hair, massaging in something thick and slippery.  
Castiel makes a soft, throaty sound at the gentle yet purposeful touch. He drifts. It's strange, but in the water he finds he feels less constrained by his vessel. As if he could stretch out his wings, even in the relatively small space of the bath. "Why are you doing this?"  
"I told you. Merely protecting my investment." Never has Crowley murmured a more obvious lie. His palms cradle Castiel's skull, hair threaded through his fingers, rubbing rhythmically until the tingling sensation shivers from Castiel's scalp right down his spine.  
"I don't believe you. I don't believe you touch your other _investments_ like this." He can't believe it. Doesn't want to. Wants to believe it's only him that Crowley touches so intimately, bathes and massages, murmurs sinful-sweet words in his ear.  
"Perhaps you're the most valuable," Crowley concedes. "Back. Lean against me." He's still speaking, whispering, as the water fills Castiel's ears, covers his eyes and nose, a sudden sensory deprivation. Darkness. Heartbeat silence. And then it’s over, his face breaking the surface once more like baptism. Rebirth. Castiel pushes the thought away. He keeps his eyes closed as Crowley carefully sluices warm water through his hair, rinsing away the suds, his entire experience narrowed to the hands so capably holding him.  
It shouldn't be so easy to do as Crowley tells him. Shouldn't feel so good to go where he's led, let Crowley coax him back in the water and touch him in whatever way he pleases. But obedience has always been soothing to Castiel. A comfort he gave up for a greater cause, and has had precious little of since. He thinks it's that, as much as the warm water and the soothing touches, that has him relaxing so fully. Underneath him he can feel the heat of Crowley's body, and he feels a sudden urge to lean into that heat, to press himself back against Crowley and be enfolded by him.  
His arms slide effortlessly to the side, palms against the smooth marble, his wrists flush against Crowley's flanks. Crowley's hands slip down from Castiel's hair, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him steady, his face out of the water. The air roars in his ears when Crowley tilts them both forward a little, out of the water: a sound to rival the storm still squalling outside. Crowley is still hard. He makes a small surprised noise, almost a groan, as Castiel pushes back against him, pressing their bodies as close as he's able. The room shimmers; viewed through the water that's clinging to his eyelashes. Crowley's arms tighten around him.  
Castiel finds himself fascinated by Crowley's erect penis. He shifts against it, feeling the shape and size of it. "What does it feel like?" He is endlessly curious.  
"What?" Real surprise there. Crowley's voice sounds thick. Choked. The fingers of his right hand trace a delicate trail down Castiel's forearm beneath the water.  
"Arousal. What does it feel like to you?" Castiel shivers at that barely-there touch. His body feels more urgent, more immediate than usual. It won't let him forget that it's there, the wrong size and shape but still enclosing him, holding him too tight.  
A breathless exhale of laughter ruffles Castiel's damp hair. The hard length pressed against his back throbs, unmistakeably. "A little forward there, darling. I like it." The hand stroking his arm travels upwards, curling fingers around his bicep. The bath water is still warm as ever, but Castiel's skin is prickling goosebumps anywhere it's exposed to air. "Much the same as it feels to you, I expect." His voice drops lower, like drifting smoke. "Sweet. A sweet ache that begs to be tormented."  
"I'm not entirely certain how it feels to me." Normally Castiel suppresses the vessel's urges and responses, its hungers and needs. The thought of allowing himself to feel those suppressed desires is... intimidating. And yet. And yet Castiel is curious.  
"Is that so?" Crowley shifts again, sitting more upright. The movement rubs the length of him against Castiel's vessel once more and he hears, this close, the tiny wet click as Crowley swallows. "Pray, elaborate." His chin is resting on Castiel's shoulder now.  
"Sexual desire is not something we experience in Heaven. And in this form..." Castiel holds up a hand and turns it this way and that, as if examining it. "I normally suppress as many of the body's appetites as possible." To varying degrees of success, as his power waxes and wanes, but still. The thought of arousal is uncomfortable. Something he feels he ought not to permit himself.  
"So I see." Castiel is suddenly aware of Crowley's line of vision. Of his own penis nestled soft and innocuous between his thighs. "And do you _want_ to suppress your... _appetites_?" The bristly hair of Crowley's beard rubs against Castiel's shoulder as he whispers, "Not even the odd burger here and there?"  
"I've discovered some of the benefits to occasional indulgence, in certain areas. But this... this seems more complex. I don't understand it." Crowley's mouth by his ear makes Castiel shiver. He feels restless inside, like the form beneath the human skin is twitching. "Perhaps you need to have been born human."  
"Perhaps. But you like the water, at least." Crowley's tone sounds thoughtful. "Come on. Up." Castiel allows himself to be led, standing on strangely unsteady legs as the water streams off them both, slicking the hair on his forearms and legs darker against his skin. "You'll get cold if you stay wet," Crowley says. His voice is so low that Castiel can't be fully sure he's not talking to himself. He doesn't dry off though. He holds one of the red towels, spread out towards Castiel. Castiel takes an uncertain step towards him, letting himself be enveloped in all that soft, fluffy red. Is this what Crowley himself would feel like? That red smoke, all dry and soft and warming? Crowley is drying him as if he were a child, or otherwise incapable of attending to himself. Rubbing down each of his long, damp limbs. In the dark mirror of the bath's surface, the candlelight is flickering. Crowley tilts his head, intent on his task, his entire attention given over to Castiel. Perhaps he _is_ the demon's most valuable investment - why else would he exhibit such care?  Castiel watches him. Little droplets of water cling to the damp hair on his chest. Too short to curl, a fine dark nap. When Crowley seems satisfied that Castiel is dry - his hands gentle, touching everywhere, _everywhere_ -  he pats himself down perfunctorily with the same towel. Tosses it into a corner of the tiled floor. The robe he fetches and holds open for Castiel is similar to his own that he discarded by the bath. Except this one is black with a gold thread running through the weave, picking out a pattern of willow boughs. It's heavier than Castiel expects as it settles on his shoulders. Quilted, and carrying the dusty sugar smell of antique silk.  
Crowley seems to enjoy dressing him as much as undressing him. As though Castiel were a doll for him to clothe and pose in a metal stand. "What now?" Castiel asks, eyeing his pile of still-damp clothes with distaste and hoping he will not be required to put them on again.  
"It's warmer downstairs. There's a fire." Crowley eyes Castiel's still-wet hair. He raises an eyebrow. "We can indulge some of those rarely-catered-to appetites of yours." His hand is casual at the small of Castiel's back, steering him from the room. The stair carpet is soft as feathers beneath Castiel's bare feet.  
Everything about this place is sensual; decadent. Castiel tells himself that he can't see the point in it, but the black robe is as silky as water on his skin, the light from the wall sconces and candelabras is dim enough that it soothes his eyes where they are used to endless, impossible brightness. And Crowley's touch on his back is a warm, constant reassurance, guiding him to where Crowley wants him to be. Which turns out to be a large wood-floored room with an ornate, blazing fireplace set into one wall. The windows are curtained, the sound of the heavy rain only just audible under the tinfoil music of the fire. A soft, smoky threnody. Crowley leads him to the fire, and the symbolism of it does not escape Castiel. Here the room shrinks, as the shadowy far corners retreat and only the patch of thrown firelight seems real. There is a rug on the floor, soft under Castiel's bare, curling toes. "Kneel," Crowley instructs him in the barest murmur, and Castiel obeys. Sinks to his knees in front of the flames.  
Crowley's mouth softens into a small, pleased smile. Even standing over Castiel, lit from below in dancing shadow, he looks uncharacteristically gentle. The firelight animates his features. Paints devils there. His eyes reflect it, burning. Heaven is light, clean and blinding, but this is a different kind of beauty; not pure, but irresistible still in its complication and nuance, things half-seen. Waiting for revelation. Crowley's hand lifts, like he's about to reach out and touch Castiel's hair again, and without thought Castiel angles towards it. But Crowley pauses. Doesn't close the distance. "Wait."  
The surround of the fire is marble too. Black and white, beautifully carved in geometric elegance that speaks of long-dead craftsmanship. The flames riot. Lick like kisses. Castiel feels lulled. Mesmerised. The heat beating his face. When Crowley returns, Castiel's hair is dry and he's still kneeling.  
It feels a little like sleep. Castiel hadn't known how much he was craving passivity, how much he missed this simple state where nothing is required of him but obedience. He hears Crowley chuckle, but it's a kind sound. Castiel thinks he should speak, but no words come to him. "Angel," Crowley says, so fondly that it is less a descriptor and more a term of endearment. Castiel drags his eyes up to Crowley's face. This is a dream, he decides. Unreal. And since angels do not dream, he must be human. A human dreaming he's an angel, on his knees at a demon's bare feet. His mouth is dry from the heat when he says, "What do you want from me?"  
"You have me all wrong, love." Crowley says softly. He sinks to his knees too, opposite Castiel. Close. "I don't want to take from you. I only want to give. Here." Castiel glances down. In one hand Crowley is cradling two tumblers, cut crystal and each filled with a couple of inches of dark gold liquid. The hands of his vessel are so large he can cradle both glasses in one, partially balanced on his wrist. Dumbly, Castiel takes one. Crowley sets his own and the little bowl he's holding in the other hand down on the edge of the hearth. "Sit." Castiel sits.  
Castiel holds the tumbler carefully, feeling Crowley's eyes on him. He sniffs at the dark liquid experimentally. Alcohol. Pungent and smoky, almost overbearing. It smells like the colour of Crowley's eyes. Castiel wonders what effect alcohol will have on him here, with Crowley's power in the air dampening his own, making him feel more pinned inside his vessel than usual. "Am I to drink it?"  
Crowley lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Shifts on the soft pile of the sheepskin rug so that his feet are both tucked neatly beneath him. "If you like. I'd recommend it. New experiences, and all that." Braced on one hand, he lifts his own glass and sips, the liquid just wetting his lips, his eyes never leaving Castiel's over the gleaming rim of the glass. He licks his lips. Behind them a log cracks loudly in the fire, sending out a twist of grey.  
Castiel tries to copy Crowley exactly, to make sure he isn't doing it wrong. He takes a sip from the glass. It tastes strong, like antiseptic, and it burns at the back of his throat. His lips feel at once too hot and too cold where the drink has wet them. He licks them compulsively, trying to chase the strange sensation. He sees Crowley's eyes drop to his mouth. Castiel's voice feels hoarse and warm when he speaks. "Is it supposed to taste nice?"  
"Doesn't it?" Crowley's voice is a rumbling purr. "Try again. Savour it."  
The scent of it is acerbic, a fragrant sting to the eyes that makes Castiel's mouth flood with spit. He closes his eyes and sips. Tingling. Pins and needles to the tongue, hot-cold taste-scent evaporating off the roof of his mouth. It burns right down, settling in his belly. The aftertaste almost sweet. Burnt sugar at the back of his throat. Near pain, but compelling to repeat. The heft of heavy crystal fits comfortably to his hand. A lightness, dizziness, like fumes, fills his head, makes his belly ring with emptiness. He settles a little more comfortably on the soft pelt of the rug, down on one elbow. Lazy and warm. Crowley's eyes have never left his mouth. He sips again at his own drink and his throat bobs as he swallows. His voice sounds raw. "Better?” Crowley asks. “It's like letting the fire in. Letting it inside you."  
Is this what the vessels feel, Castiel wonders, when a demon rushes into them? Burnt up inside, suddenly aware of their own hollowness, how much space there is inside them, how much they can hold? "Better," he agrees, suddenly greedy for more, gulping down enough that it makes him cough.  
"Easy, tiger." Crowley chuckles, a warm sound, full of affection Castiel might be imagining. He takes the glass from Castiel's hand and Castiel watches its progress suspiciously but Crowley merely sets it down on the hearth, within easy reach. "I thought you might enjoy a spot of supper. Keep your strength up." He reaches for the bowl he set down earlier. His other hand comes up. Cradles Castiel's jaw, fingers along the line. His thumb strokes the corner of Castiel's mouth. Drags warm and dry along his lower lip. "Open."  
Castiel's eyelids feel heavy as he opens his mouth. He doesn't need to eat, but he can't bring himself to protest. Finds he wants to taste Crowley's thumb, his thick fingers. He isn't sure where that desire comes from, or what to do with it, but his body is too relaxed for tension. And besides, hasn't he already decided that nothing here is real? He leans into Crowley's touch, mouth open, waiting.  
The texture of the berry Crowley rubs across his lower lip is a contrast to his touch. Fire-warmed and smooth. It yields between his teeth, bursting all the complexities of its flavour. Sweet. Moist. Firm. He can taste every molecule of course, but some strange impulse makes him not want to. To experience the soft focus whole rather than analyse the components. Crowley's thumb sweeps his lower lip again as he chews, swallows. Crowley's eyes on his mouth. His expression so hungry. He notices Castiel noticing and raises his eyebrows. "Good?"  
Castiel nods. His mouth is still full of the flavour, he thinks his lips must be red with the juice. He licks them, and his tongue brushes Crowley's thumb. A sliver of the salt-and-ash taste of his flesh, its contrast with the sweet, ripe strawberries and the rich honey heat of the alcohol. Castiel feels dizzy. He nuzzles his face into Crowley's hand. "Another?" He's already holding it out. Plump. Glossy. Blazing with the firelight, so red it looks wet. Tight skin, holding in so much. So easily broken. Castiel's head spins. He's sure there is something he should be doing right now, some vital duty he should be attending to, but his spirit feels so portentously anchored to this flesh he inhabits. This time is more sensation than taste. The smooth glide of the berry against his wet lips as Crowley rubs it across them before allowing him to bite. Crowley's fingers drift along his jaw. Withdraw once more. Castiel isn't sure why such a simple act is making him feel like this. All unmoored, cast adrift. It is only food. He feels there must be some human significance to it that he's missing, something his body is subconsciously picking up on, making him feel... uncontained. "I can feed myself," he reminds Crowley. But he doesn't want to, he realises. He wants Crowley's hands, wants them to rub the sweet red fruit on his mouth, to tempt him with it. Serpent.  
"Yes, you can. And you can destroy me on a whim." Crowley's voice is low, hypnotic. "Don't think I'm so vain as to forget that, angel."  
"I won't hurt you," Castiel promises, very sincerely. "You're safe with me." Castiel won't hurt him or let anything else hurt him, if he can help it. He wonders where this protectiveness has come from.  
"The feeling's mutual, pet. At least for tonight." Crowley holds the berry he's clutching just out of reach, but Cas is too languid to snap at it. He pokes his tongue out, just a little, hoping Crowley gets the message. Crowley makes a tiny, unusual noise. He leans forward, placing the strawberry carefully against Castiel's lips. The movement parts his robe a little. Broad, strong chest, twin swirls of hair and coloured ink. Strange, these vessels. Strange and lovely. Crowley's suits him. Castiel swallows, sweetness almost cloying.  
"I want more whisky."  
Crowley's brows rise at 'want' but his hand darts out, fingers closing around Castiel's wrist as he reaches for his glass.  
"Let me."  
"What are you-?"  
Crowley takes a measured mouthful from Castiel's glass. When he leans in, he crowds him so that Castiel is obliged to lean, tip his head back as Crowley fits their mouths together, parting his lips and spilling a trickle of spirit into Castiel's gasping mouth. The sound that escapes him is pure surprise. A drop of whisky runs down his chin; Crowley chases it with his tongue, all the way back to Castiel's lips.  
This is a kiss, Castiel thinks, as he tries not to sputter around the unexpected heat of the whisky. Crowley's lips are soft, surprisingly so for such an intimidating creature. He's capable of such gentleness, Castiel is discovering. Such patience as he coaxes Castiel into relaxing against his mouth, into responding to the slow, sweet, lingering motion of lips on lips. It's awkward. Castiel has never, has no frame of reference. He tries to mimic Crowley's movements. Feels hopelessly out of his depth. He can't help thinking of all the people Crowley has kissed. Their imagined faces tick through his mind like a metronome. Crowley tastes like the whisky, like burning and sweetness and strength all clashed together. How can Castiel resist it?  
They don't need to part for breath. Crowley pulls back anyway, his brows drawn together, regarding Castiel gravely as if searching his eyes for clues, before he leans back in. His touch is sure. Firm. He takes Castiel's mouth, pressing his tongue between his parted lips, dipping inside rhythmically until Castiel weakens beneath him and Crowley can push further, deeper, surging like smoke. Like possession. Castiel finds himself moaning around Crowley's tongue. It's a surprisingly human sound, not one he ever thought he would hear himself make. He feels full of Crowley, Crowley is all he can taste and feel and see, the scent of whisky and the heat of the fire merging with the scent and heat of the body pressing closer to him. "Crowley," he moans as Crowley pulls away from his mouth to graze his teeth along Castiel's stubbled jaw. "I feel so..." He shakes his head. There are no words for how he feels.  
"Is it good?" Crowley murmurs against his lips. And somehow Castiel is on his back on the rug, the thick pile of the fur soft against his neck, Crowley's lips soft against his neck... There's no possibility he can be drunk, but he feels drunk on this: every nerve ending of this unfamiliar cage of flesh is on fire.  
"It's indescribable." Is this how physical intimacy feels for humans? This overwhelming and impossible to process? Castiel isn't even sure if it feels good, this lack of control, this mindless instinctual _response_ to Crowley, to his body. It feels like drowning.  
"Would you like me to stop?" The caress of Crowley's lips against his throat becomes a pinch, brief and light, enough to snatch a gasp from him but not nearly enough to hurt. Crowley's fingers in his hair tighten, a long, soft tug. Brief. A threat of roughness, or a promise. Then Crowley's lips are on his again, pulling those helpless sounds from his throat, answering them with his own.  
"No," Castiel gasps. "No, don't stop." Crowley looms over him, almost eclipsing the firelight, his robe slipped down to reveal one bare shoulder. Castiel bites his lip, wanting to put his mouth there on that shadowy skin. He feels intensely aware of his own body, how it strains up towards Crowley's, how the muscles are filling with tension, his inner thighs, his belly, all taut and wanting motion, friction, contact. His penis feels heavy, achy, like a bruise. He wants to take off his skin like a robe and show himself to Crowley as he really is, all formless light and sound and grace.  
"Dear mercy, you're gorgeous." Crowley is languid still, all patient kisses and lazy, easy strokes of his hand up Castiel's silk-clad arms, but there's something more. A thrumming urgency underpinning his actions, held back and barely restrained. Crowley's voice is rough. "Do you know what you do to me?"  
"No," Castiel admits. Crowley is touching him like he's a possession, like Crowley is utterly assured of his ownership. "Show me."  
Hesitation, then. Crowley hovers, poised above him, as if he can't quite trust his own ears. The wind howls in the chimney, the fire crackling and spitting. A comforting, cosy sound. Crowley's eyes are wide, gazing at Castiel's face with what he could swear is uncertainty. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. His hands find the tie of Castiel's robe and slowly pull the knot loose.  
Castiel has never felt self-consciousness at the vessel's nudity before this moment. He tries to tell himself that it isn't _him_ , is only a shell for the real Castiel to hide away in. But he feels more present in the body here, closer to the skin than ever before. He turns his face away as Crowley parts his robe. Stares into the fire, lets the brightness of it sting his eyes, but he can still feel Crowley's gaze sweep his vessel's skin like a caress. He's staring. Castiel knows this. Committing to memory, maybe. The hands that so carefully fed him minutes ago are no less gentle as they slip beneath the spread lapels of his robe, a touch as fluent as the silk itself. Castiel shivers in spite of the fire. Aware of every nuance of this vessel, every tiny hair of it standing to attention. And Crowley's hands are warm and dry and big, mapping him from shoulders to hips, thumbs skimming his nipples, dipping into his navel. He finds himself pressing up into Crowley's touches, chasing them, squirming involuntarily. He risks a glance up at him. Crowley is regarding him with utter concentration. Like an artist, like a painter at a canvas, all blinding focus. Castiel holds a breath he doesn't need. "Should I touch you?" he asks.  
Crowley's eyes flicker closed, just briefly, like he's gathering his composure. "You should do exactly as you please, kitten." His thumbs circle the sensitive dip below Castiel's hipbones and Castiel's hips hitch at the touch, there, where he is sensitive to the point of being ticklish. So unused to touch that his body almost can't process it. He reaches out and knocks the robe off Crowley's other shoulder, greedy for skin, gliding his more delicate fingers through Crowley’s dark chest hair. Crowley's vessel is stunning. His robe pools around his hips. Everything about him is lush, he seems more human than any man Castiel has previously known.

"I don't know how," he confesses. "I don't know how to touch you."  
"You've never done this before." It's a statement but Crowley's tone is one of new realisation. Castiel would have assumed that much was obvious, but evidently not. Crowley's hands on his belly are reverent. His voice lust-dark. "You're absolutely untouched." He catches one of Castiel's hands, around the wrist. Bows his head to bring it to his mouth, kissing Castiel's open palm, dragging each finger in turn across his lips, lapping at each fingertip.  
"Does it bother you?" Castiel feels very far from untouched. He feels Crowley's mouth, his wet tongue, on every finger. It's so warm, here, in front of the fire. The heat is liquid around them, thick and cloying. "Will you show me how?"  
"Oh, darling. I'll show you every way how." When Crowley bends to kiss him, several things happen that Castiel registers only vaguely in the haze of unfamiliar sensation. Crowley's hands, fingers still twined with Castiel's fingers, drag his arms above his head, to rest, pinned by the wrists against the pelt of the rug. Crowley's body covers his, chest to his chest... Castiel gasps, tilts his hips, the heavy friction of Crowley's erection against his, separated only by a layer of quilted silk. Crowley's lips are hot at his throat, the point of his tongue dragging across stubble.  "You make me want you. I want to taste you. Hell help me, I want to sink my teeth in and drink you down. Reach in and dip into that blinding light. Burn my fingers on you. Would you like that, angel? I can make you feel so good."  
"Yes," Castiel chokes out. "Yes, I want it. I want you to feel me." The creature under the vessel’s skin is roaring. Splinters of light are spilling out at the edges, he has to concentrate to rein them back in. He surges up into the big body above him, his hips jerking arhythmically to rub his genitals against Crowley's. He does this instinctively, as if the body itself knows what it wants. He is hot, down there, hot and tumescent and greedy in a way he has never been before. It's a startling sensation. He tries to move his arms - thrills at the discovery that Crowley has them in a vice-tight grip. That Crowley will not let him escape. Those big, strong hands. Castiel makes an involuntary noise at the thought of it. The little fragmented pieces of light are threatening to escape him again; he struggles to hold them inside.  
Crowley swallows every little whimper, licks them from his mouth. His tongue is insistent. Invasive. Joining them at just this one point, merging their clumsy meat prisons like they're elevated from this plane, just for this timeless time. Castiel knows he's glowing. Can feel it at his seams; his eyes, mouth, fingertips. Crowley's hips roll. Too gentle. He releases one of Castiel's wrists – Castiel’s hand goes immediately to Crowley's hair, all instinct - and reaches down between them, pulling at the belt of his gown and pushing it away. The slide of his naked flesh against Castiel's tears a surprised little cry from Castiel's throat. Above him, Crowley groans. He's thick, big. Dripping wet from staying so long aroused without relief. The hand still holding Castiel's wrist pulls it to him, places Castiel's hand against him, an invitation to explore. When Castiel opens his eyes, Crowley's fierce hazel gaze is filmed over scarlet, leaking bloody wisps of vapour.  
Castiel bites his lip as his fingers spread, hesitantly. Exploring. "Your vessel is different to mine, here," he states. "Bigger. And... different." He rubs his fingertips through the wetness at the end of Crowley's penis and feels him shudder, bow his head until his forehead rests on Castiel’s. Crowley has never felt more dangerous to Castiel, or more intriguing.  
"And there, I thought I must be losing my touch." Crowley's voice grates, laboured. One hand closes tight around Castiel's length, giving a firm stroke and twist and Castiel's hips buck, his mouth dropping open. "Don't pop your cork yet, kitten. My, but you're sweet. All neat and tidy, good little choirboy." He brings his hand back up, to his mouth, licks a stripe of silvery wetness from his own palm. His thick lashes flutter. His hand disappears between them again and Castiel feels him. Touching himself. Bringing slick fingers to press between Castiel's lips, against the velvet pad of his tongue. He tastes vital. Animal. Alive. The scent of them both on his fingers. Castiel's tongue laves around, between them and Crowley moans as if that tongue is somewhere else. "Yes... Cas... That's... Yes..."  
Castiel wonders how his vessel is still containing him. It must be this place, how the atmosphere seems to press on him, to tether him into his body. Crowley is nothing if not powerful, resourceful. Even the air tastes of him. Every sense of Castiel's is full of him, overwhelmed. He suckles helplessly, his lips stretching around those thick, blunt fingers, his tongue tasting every atom it comes into contact with. Crowley's praise makes him itch inside, makes him glow white-hot. He looks up, captivated by Crowley's eyes, by the way they glitter, the way their gaze feels like a penetration - like he can see inside Castiel, into the secret, grace-filled, roiling heart of him.  
The touch of those fingers at his vessel's entrance makes Castiel tense. Of course he knows the mechanics of this act. But for it to be happening now, here, with this creature... He's anchored to the present, the roar of fire and gale, his vessel already full to bursting, Crowley's murmurs against his throat. And Crowley forces one thick fingertip in, between Castiel's legs, and Castiel keens. It's an odd, specific discomfort, focused in a way that makes him want more, makes him feel like he could peel this mortal shell away and just be. A joining. "More." _Wider. Climb inside me._ The pleasure is a single ringing chord.

Crowley is panting, hungry sounds. He pushes, spreading. "Burning for me, love. My love. You feel like home. Let go. You can let go. I want to feel you. You can hurt me. I want you to hurt me."  
Castiel is making noises. Inhuman noises, sounds he's never heard himself make. He forces his legs wider apart, pushes onto Crowley's finger, wanting to feel it as deep inside him as he can, wanting Crowley within him in whatever way possible - his vessel and the smoky demon inside it. Light and sound and grace leak from him, like the ejaculate leaking from the vessel's erection. He can't contain it. Tendrils of his true self reaching for Crowley, sinking into the darkness of him, illuminating it in brief, painful bursts like the crackling sparks of a fire, like embers. Above him Crowley flinches but does not withdraw, instead presses deeper, opens Castiel wider, swallows his cries.  
It's a loss when Crowley's fingers pull out, but not for long, replaced by the thick slick head of his penis. Crowley lines it up with one hand, pressing. Clumsy and awkward, these vessels are blunt instruments but still capable of creating such beauty. He pushes. Castiel lets out a long, unholy moan. This act is not an easy thing and Castiel is glad. Glad to be flayed raw, his essence sizzling against Crowley's roaring red. Crowley pushes. Something gives and he's sliding inside, their vessels joining. Crowley growls, wordless. His hair is sticking, mortally damp, to his forehead. His eyes blaze. His kiss is desperate, frantic, adoring.  
Nothing could have prepared Castiel for the shock of penetration. The intensity of it, the way Crowley seems barely able to control himself, the way he shakes, teeth gritted, and holds himself still. He's stiff inside Castiel, so big that he can feel it when he breathes, feel the way his body has to give around it. Crowley is holding him like something precious. "I can feel you," Castiel breathes, and his voice is stunned. Quiet. "I can feel you in me."  
"I..." Crowley's chest is heaving. The things he might say flash through Castiel's mind - _I should hope you can_ \- but Crowley doesn't complete the sentence. His hands move, one cradling a shoulder, the other smoothing down Castiel's thigh, cupping behind his knee to lift his leg higher, angle his siege more sweetly. He eases his hips back, excruciatingly gentle. Presses forward again with equal care, a rolling wave that drags a gasp from both of them. His voice is a whisper. "I can feel you too, angel. It burns cold."  
"Oh. When you move, I feel..." Castiel can't make words any more. Can only cling to Crowley and try to hold himself together at the seams, try not to burn Crowley's eyes out with his lack of self-control. It aches, where they're joined. Feels at once too much and incomplete. Like he wants to drag Crowley further inside himself, to consume him. Like the barrier between them is fraying, letting them merge in stops and starts.  
They push, pull. With each surge it's easier. Looser. Melting together. Becoming nothing but that exquisite point of joining. And Crowley is fluid, warm. Little puffs of breath against Castiel's cheek, drowsy lingering kisses, tongues slicking together, joining them in one unbroken, cursive circle. Almost hypnotic. So slowly Crowley picks up speed. Presses deeper, delicious friction. His hips brush the backs of Castiel's thighs. He gathers him tighter.  
Castiel feels so strange. Wound up too tight, every muscle tense and tightening. Crowley is everything, everywhere. Castiel is holding tight to his shoulders, letting himself be violated, letting himself feel it, letting himself be present in the vessel. "Crowley," he gasps, and then, "oh!" His breath is caught in his throat. Every movement of Crowley's within him traps his penis between them, rubs it, makes it ache all the more. It's such a brutal rhythm, so primitive. Castiel feels like an animal; all nerve endings and engorged blood vessels, all mindless instinct.  
Crowley answers him, wordless rapt noise. This desire feels like it's building, vibrating, static as the pause before a thunderclap. Their pace is graceless now, all resistance gone. Crowley leans up. Braced on one arm. Rutting. Wraps a palm around Castiel's length.  
Castiel cries out at that touch as if it hurts him. Something is happening, something is happening inside him, stretching taut as elastic. It feels like dying. "Crowley," he sobs, unable to stop rocking up to meet his firm, insistent thrusting. "Help me."  
Crowley's elegant brows draw together, an expression almost pained. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth. His pace does not slow, his hand moving relentlessly, delicious torment. "Hang on, darling. Hold onto me." His voice is rough. "I promise, Cas. I promise. Oh, Hell..." His head tips back, mouth gasping wide, his spine a graceful rigid arc. There, where they're joined, locked together, Castiel feels a throb, a pulse. He sobs out an ugly noise and the pressure in him seems to break, to burst from all the edges of itself. He is coming undone. Unravelling. Flooding the shadowy room with enough light that the walls scream with it. Crowley's magic, hanging in the air, is instantly overwhelmed by the sudden influx of Castiel's euphoria. Angels should never be allowed this pleasure, Castiel thinks. It is dangerous. Beyond any heavenly pleasure he has ever known. He will never again be satisfied without it. Without Crowley.  
When the riot inside him starts to still, he sees the crossroads king. Kneeling above him, chest heaving. Wild eyed and trembling, bewildered with pleasure. His wide eyes are so awestruck he looks afraid. Castiel holds his gaze and Crowley doesn't look away. He licks his lips. His hands stroke calming circles along Castiel's ribs, gentle as he was before this crisis. Castiel shifts, everything coming back into clarity. He's still wearing the silk robe. The belly and chest of his vessel are wet with emission.  "Castiel..." Crowley sounds perfectly broken.  
Castiel blinks. The room is back to its previous dimness. Something about that is comforting. He reaches for Crowley, draws him down into his arms, gathers him close. "Did I hurt you?" Such a dangerous loss of control. It shouldn't have been allowed.  
"Hurt me?" Crowley's face is hidden in the crook of Castiel's neck, his body a comforting solid weight. His tone seems to say 'are you mad?' "No... I..." His lips press against Castiel's neck, a comfort more than a kiss.  
"I'm sorry." Castiel clings to Crowley, rubs his face against Crowley's hair. Breathes in the whisky-and-ash scent of him. "I couldn't help it. I tried."  
Crowley raises his head. His eyes are heavy-lidded. Sleepy. When he moves as if to struggle out of Castiel's grip, Castiel holds him closer. But he's not leaving, just sitting up. He pushes his hair off his forehead, one hand closing around Castiel's wrist. Squeezing gently. "Stay here."  
The room seems darker when he leaves, but he's gone only a minute. When he returns he has an armful of something that Castiel realises is a patchwork quilt. It seems like an oddly sentimental thing for Crowley to own. He wonders whose memories it contains. "Come with me."  
Castiel struggles to his feet. Finds himself surprisingly shaky. He knows he could shake the feeling off if he tried, could return his vessel to that ice-and-stone immovable state it usually wears like armour. But he doesn't want to. He wants to be weak a while longer, wants to feel mortal and fragile. He takes Crowley's hand and is led silently across the room. Away from the fire-lit island of the rug his bare toes curl against the sudden chill of the wooden floorboards. It's like walking into night. Then Crowley turns and fusses with something in the shadows and a lamp ignites with a gentle swelling glow that illuminates a large leather couch piled with fringed cushions. Another island. When Castiel sits, the seat sags as if the springs have gone: it's a strangely comforting thing in this little palace of pristine art. Crowley takes the furthest spot, next to the lamp. Holds his arm out and draws Castiel to him, head settled against his shoulder. He arranges the quilt over them both.  
"I still don't understand why," Castiel murmurs, and turns so his lips brush Crowley's skin. Crowley's hand is stroking Castiel's hair. It is soothing; soporific.  
"Does there have to be a reason?" Crowley replies. It is a very human answer. In Heaven every action is ruled by reason, by a logic that Castiel can follow even if he disagrees with it. On Earth everything seems turned upside down. They hurt those who rely on them, destroy beauty to spite themselves. Love, completely and irrationally. He can only imagine how it is in Hell. Castiel glances up, sideways, at Crowley. He's just a man. The beast, shifting there in heaving coils beneath his glamour, is sleeping. "I didn't mean to feel like this." Crowley says, quietly. "I didn't expect it to _be_ like this."  
"How does it feel?" Castiel is curious. Crowley doesn't seem like the sort of creature who would be taken by surprise often. Seems instead like such liaisons as this must be common to him. Surely, Castiel thinks, this act which has been so revelatory for himself must be mundane to Crowley.  
Crowley regards him, warily. Even from this far across the room, the firelight dances in his eyes. He presses another gentle kiss to Castiel's temple. His voice is almost too quiet to hear. "Complete,” he says.


End file.
